


Running on Empty

by madame_d



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Lambs Day 2006, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-31
Updated: 2006-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_d/pseuds/madame_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Justin's having a crisis, and Lance is the only one available for babysitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running on Empty

**Author's Note:**

> For [Lambs Day 2006](http://got_fluff.livejournal.com) Southern Comfort Challenge.
> 
> With thanks to msktnanny for her helpful comments, [stellamira](http://stellamira.livejournal.com/profile) for encouragement and proving I don't know English grammar but not holding it against me, and [jewelianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jewelianna88/pseuds/jewelianna88) and [without_me](http://without-me.livejournal.com/profile) for listening to me whine and not making (too much) fun of me for it.

So, Chris and Joey are in Orlando, and JC is MIA, though in retrospect, they should've known that he's probably holed up in his studio and ignoring the outside world. Bottom line is that Lance is the only one out in LA, and Chris has called and asked him to go check up on Justin. Well, not _asked_ but demanded, cajoled and said 'please,' and when all that failed, Chris, like always, fought dirty and really, there are some things about Lance's life that people, especially ones related to him, just don't need to know about.

And so, here he is, outside the gates of Justin's fancy community, trying to persuade the guard in the booth to let him through despite Justin's orders that he is not to be bothered, not even by his mother. The guard is about Lance's age, with short, softly spiked brown hair, green eyes, a smile to kill for, and sexy dimples, and at another time, Lance would've flirted and maybe even gotten his number but right now, he's frustrated with the situation and pissed off at Justin.

"I'm sorry, sir, I have explicit orders from Mr. Timberlake that nobody is to be let through."

"Look," Lance says through gritted teeth and makes a conscious effort to unclench his jaw. "I'm not a reporter." He raises his hips, mentally smirking as the guard blinks at the movement, and pulls the wallet from his back pocket. Sliding out his driver's license, he raises it level with the guard's eyes. "My name is Lance Bass and at one time, I was in this little band called *NSync together with Justin. I'm a friend; you've got to let me through."

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Bass," the guard says, and Lance is momentarily distracted by his long, thick lashes. Oh, the things he does for the group; Chris _better_ make it up to him. Lance opens his mouth to insist some more, and the guard takes a couple of steps back, all that the tiny booth allows him.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, blinking a couple of times, and Lance decides not to pursue this exercise in futility any longer.

"No-no, it's not your fault." Lance gives the guy a small smile, to show there are no hard feelings, and slowly backs away from the gate. Just because Justin's an asshole doesn't mean Lance has to be blocking the entrance. He reverses out of the driveway and pulls over in a spot where he's certain his car won't be in the way. Then he pulls out his phone and calls Chris.

"The bastard won't let me in. Actually, he's not letting anyone in," Lance reports tightly when Chris answers with a terse, "Yeah."

"That fucker!" Chris exclaims, and he sounds affectionate and not at all incredulous.

"Yeah. Exactly. Look, keep your threats and whatever, I'm going home. I've had enough."

"No, no, Bass, don't be like that," Chris says in a soothing tone. "Look, give me a few minutes, okay? I'll call you back."

Lance hangs up and turns on the music, letting the calming sounds pour over him. He leans his head back against the headrest and stares, unseeing, in the distance. The song ends and another begins, and Lance glances in the rearview mirror, the guard booth sparkling in the sunlight. He sees the guard pick up the phone, nod jerkily a couple of times and hang up. Lance closes his eyes.

… and opens them again not a minute later when there's a knock on his window. It's the guard.

"Mr. Bass, I'm very sorry about before. I just got the call from Mr. Timberlake, and if you'd still like to go through, I can let you pass now."

"Thank you," Lance smiles, trying to convey gratitude instead of ardent desire to strip the guy naked and fuck him into oblivion. From the way the guard flushes slightly, it's hard to tell if Lance has succeeded. "And don't worry about … the situation. You're just doing your job and you're doing it admirably." The guard nods, tips of his ears still red, and walks back to his booth. Lance makes a mental note to ask Chris what his name is. Justin probably won't know but chances are that Chris does.

Lance turns around, drives through the gates and parks in the driveway to Justin's garage. None of Justin's cars are parked outside, but that doesn't mean anything; Justin guards his cars even in a gated community. Lance gets out of the car and his phone rings.

"Did you get through?"

"Hey, Chris. Do I want to know what kind of blackmail you held over Justin's head?"

Chris laughs. "Probably not. But I was nicer to you than to him."

"Good enough." Lance flips his phone closed and walks up to Justin's door. There's a moment of indecision – just because Justin was forced to make the guard let Lance pass doesn't mean that Justin has to let Lance into his house. Lance carefully pokes the door with his index finger and it slowly swings open under pressure. Lance shrugs, enters the house, and kicks the door closed, spitefully hoping the white paint shows off the dusty footprint of his flip-flop. He knows it won't, though.

Justin's house is dark. Not just 'no lights turned on anywhere' dark but 'lights off and shades drawn' kind of dark, so Lance walks through the house, flipping light switches and making bets with himself as to where and how soon he can find Justin. He's almost disappointed when he finds Justin in the second room he looks into.

Justin is not in the master bedroom but instead in one of the guest rooms. The room is dark, like the rest of the house, but the hallway light provides enough illumination to see that the room looks like a tornado hit it. Clothes are strewn all over the floor, draped over furniture and empty bottles alike. The floor is littered with empty beer cans and bottles; a bottle of Jack Daniel's, lying on its side, is still sluggishly oozing the remains of its contents. There are stains all over the once-gorgeous hardwood floors, and when Lance takes a step inside the room, the soles of his flip-flops stick to the floor and make disgusting noises when he tries to walk.

Stale air is thick with the smell of pot, sweat, and booze. The bed is a mess. It looks as if ten little kids bounced on it an entire day or maybe several people had sex in it for a week without changing the sheets. Lance waves a hand in front of his face, trying to draw in a breath that doesn't make him choke, and looks around.

Justin is seated on the floor, using the bed as backrest. His eyes are closed and he's clutching a bottle of something in his hand, but his socked feet are twitching slightly to a beat only Justin can hear, so he's not unconscious. Yet. He's wearing a ratty, stained t-shirt that should've been a rag at least five years ago and sweatpants cut off at the knee that, Lance suspects, are also a few years past their expiration date. Justin's hair is buzzed close to the scalp again, and it's impossible to say just by looking at it when Justin showered last but Justin's also sporting blotchy facial hair, like he's tried to shave and has given up halfway through.

Lance ignores Justin completely for the moment and makes his careful way to the window, opening the drapes, sliding the windows open to air out the room, and turning the blinds just enough to get some light in.

Justin shifts and says, "I fucking hate Chris." His voice is hoarse, rough, a little lower his usual speaking register. Justin sounds like… well, like he's spent some time on a bender doing nothing but drinking and smoking pot. Which is exactly what Justin _has_ been doing, so no surprise there. "Two days. I can't do some… fucking up for _two days_?"

Lance rolls his eyes and kicks Justin's foot.

"Shut up, you fucking drama queen," he says, kicking an empty beer can aside to make his way back toward the bed. "You're too late for quarter-life crisis, and too early for the mid-life one, so what the fuck is wrong with you? I have things to do _other_ than babysitting you, you selfish ass."

Justin raises his head to blearily track Lance's progress around the room. "Lance Bass and his Tough Love." He way he says the words makes them seem capitalized. "Why are _you_ here? I didn't want you here. I didn't want _any_ of you here. Chris made me let you in."

"Yeah. Well, apparently, Chris _cares_ when you go on self-destructive benders. Bad for the squeaky-clean boybander image, as it were. And also, your favourite babysitter is MIA, and your second favourite babysitter is in Florida." Lance glances down and, for the first time, notices the label of the bottle Justin's holding. "The fuck, Justin? Southern Comfort? Seriously?"

"Shut up," Justin mutters, and he doesn't sound as drunk as the number of empties thrown around the room would indicate. But there are wrappers from snack-sized packages of Oreos and Doritos mixed in with dirty socks on the floor; Justin hasn't been drinking on an empty stomach.

Lance leans over, wraps two fingers around the neck of the bottle, and tugs. "Give me that." He fully intends to put the bottle on the bedside table but something makes him pause. It's been a very long time since Lance had tasted Southern Comfort; he raises the bottle to his lips and takes a careful swallow.

The liquor burns all the way to his stomach, and Lance fights a little reflexive cough that threatens to escape, swallowing and clearing his throat.

"Why are you on the floor?"

Justin tilts his head back to look at him. "Because the bed is disgusting." Justin stares at his toes intently and wriggles the left ones. "I think I spilled something on it two days ago," he says. Lance hopes the 'something' is alcohol and not urine. He places the bottle on the nightstand and surveys the bed; there aren't any obvious stains, not anymore.

"Well, you know, it's probably dry by now. Be right back."

Lance marches to another guest bedroom, pulls the bedspread and pillows off the bed, and carries them back into the room, throwing the spread over the bed and pillows on top. It's much easier to get Mohammed to the mountain; Lance isn't planning on carrying, or even dragging, Justin back to his room; he can sleep in the messed up guest one.

"Get on the bed, Timberlake. Your back is fucked up enough without you needing to add to it."

Lance waits, tapping his foot impatiently, while Justin looks around the floor, then around the room, as if calculating his chances of getting up without cracking his head open. Lance huffs out an annoyed sigh, wraps his right palm around Justin's hand and wrist and pulls him up just enough to drop his ass on the bed.

"Lie down."

Justin isn't letting go of Lance's hand. Which isn't a problem for the next two seconds but will be immediately afterwards. Lance tugs on his hand experimentally, "Justin?"

"You're staying, right?"

"For a little while, yeah. Need to make sure you don't drown in a bottle or wind up with alcohol poisoning. Bad PR, you know."

Justin laughs, the braying sound rough and grating, then stops abruptly. Lance looks around the room some more, the haze and the smell fading thanks to the open window, and gets on the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. When Lance looks over at Justin, he's managed to get the bottle back into his possession.

Justin tilts his head back, pouring some liquid down his throat, then lowers the bottle.

"There's this drink," he says slowly, almost dreamily, "with SoCo. Called _Comfortable Fuzzy Screw Against the Wall_."

"You don't say," Lance says dryly, reaching for the bottle. Justin relinquishes control easily, like he knows he'll be getting the bottle back. It's a little unsettling, especially since Lance is maybe thinking about it, giving him the bottle back. They haven't done this – this whole bottle and idle chat sharing thing – since they were very young, left behind in German hotel rooms the few times that Lynn and Diane wanted some time to themselves. That was a very long time ago; Lance doesn't think he remembers it all that well. Except when he does.

Justin hums. "I could use some of that right now." Lance guesses he means the sex, not the alcohol.

Lance chuckles, "I don't think you physically could."

Justin opens his mouth, ready to say something, then stops. "You're probably right. Too damn bad, because here you are. Will be just like the old times."

Lance wonders which 'old times' Justin means. He takes another pull on the bottle and it doesn't taste as vile as it did on the first try, long-forgotten taste hitting all the wrong buttons and summoning up unpleasant memories. Now, it just burns comfortably when he swallows, the sensation almost soothing in its familiarity.

Justin doesn't ask for the bottle back. Instead, he wriggles and shifts on the bedspread, trying to get comfortable. He pulls the pillow from under his head and slides down even lower, until he's stretched out flat on the bed. Lance thinks his back must be killing him.

Justin clears his throat and Lance looks at his face. Justin's eyes are closed but his face is schooled into a determined expression, a frown on his face so deep his eyebrows are forming a unibrow. Without thinking, Lance reaches out and presses between Justin's eyebrows, smoothing out his frown, something like relief spreading over him when Justin lets his face relax. Lance doesn't think about it.

Justin says, "When I was on MMC, I had a crush on JC," and Lance laughs.

"Yeah. I know. JC knew that; the entire world knew that. Tell me something I don't know. "

Justin turns his face slightly to look at him and he has a strange little smile on his face, nostalgic and regretful at once over memories that are resurfacing.

"My first kiss was with Christina. My first boy kiss was with Joey but he didn't mean it. Nick, uh, Carter was the first who did. My first handjob," Justin exhales, as if gathering strength, "first handjob was also with Nick. First given blowjob was with AJ but don't tell him; he doesn't remember."

"Justin, why are you telling me all this?" Some of this is old knowledge; some isn't.

Justin plows on head-first as if Lance hadn't said anything. "My first times were with Brit and Chris." He laughs and it's not nice. Justin leans up on his elbows and looks straight at Lance. His gaze is intense, burning right through Lance, and Lance shivers involuntarily.

"I don't have any firsts with you."

Lance, who's just taken another gulp from the bottle, sputters and coughs as liquor slides down the wrong pipe.

"Justin. We shared lots of first times. First gold—"

"I'm not talking about group stuff."

Lance wants to make a crack about Justin's list of firsts that reads like a 1999 TRL lineup. Instead, he says, "By then, there weren't any firsts left."

Justin scoots back against the headboard, stuffing the spare pillow under the small of his back, and snaps his fingers, pointing at the bottle in Lance's hand. "Gimme."

Lance shrugs and passes the bottle. He waits until Justin's got the bottle mouth-level, then asks, "So. Quarter-slash-midlife crisis-slash-bender. What brought it on?"

Justin shrugs and starts tilting the bottle. Lance grabs it by the bottom, tugging down, and Justin glares at him.

"No, seriously. You don't get to sit here and mope after a bender and not just answer any questions." Lance yanks sharply at the bottle and Justin, taken by surprise, lets go.

"So. Start talking."

Justin slides down the bed again. "I'm taking a nap." He turns on his side, curving his back by pulling his knees up to his chin, and closes his eyes. His whole pose screams _"Leave me alone!"_ and Lance can't do anything but.

He slides out of bed, opens the drapes and windows that he hasn't before but leaves the blinds mostly closed. Warm breeze comes through, soothing and smelling of flowers and trees blooming outside, apple trees or maybe lilacs, and Lance uses his half of the comforter to cover up Justin's legs and leaves the room.

Once outside, he calls Chris while opening doors and windows in the rest of the house. Except for that one guest room, everything is clean and neat; every room is picture-ready for a spread in _InStyle_.

"How's Justin?" Chris asks without niceties such as greetings.

"What was he like when you called to threaten him to let me in?"

Chris laughs, "Rude and obnoxious."

"Ah. I got sloppy-drunk and maudlin. He's broken and wouldn't tell me why. First time I asked, he started telling me about his sexual firsts. Brit really was his first time with a girl? Anyway. Next I asked, he showed me his back and decided to take a nap."

" _Edison_ 's going straight to video," Chris says and everything clicks into place.

"The golden boy with Midas touch isn't so golden anymore. How'd you know? It hasn't been made official yet, has it?"

"No. I called Joey."

Lance pulls out a chair in the kitchen and sits down to examine the contents of Justin's fridge. There are two-liter bottles of imported water in the door, and a plastic container of takeout but the fridge is bare, otherwise. The freezer houses several trays of ice cubes, a pint carton of non-fat frozen yogurt, a small pouch of coffee beans, and two mostly empty bottles of Smirnoff.

"Chris. You should be here. Or JC. I know I'm the only one in the area but I don't know what the fuck to do. I'm really _not_ better than nothing; I can't do anything. He doesn't want company; he wants to wallow in his misery."

Chris sighs heavily and hangs up on him, leaving Lance staring at his phone and feeling slightly guilty.

Lance rummages in the cabinets for a coffee grinder, then struggles with Justin's futuristic coffee maker, eventually managing to set everything up. By the time he grabs one of the water bottles and heads upstairs, almost an hour has passed. Lance detours to the bathroom for the bottle of painkillers and walks into the bedroom. Justin's still curled up on the bed, and something feels tight in Lance's chest for a moment, that a guy as big as Justin can be curled up into a small lump.

Lance sits down on the bed by Justin's hip, puts the water and the pills on the nightstand, and spreads his hand over the small of Justin's back. When he presses down with his fingertips, Justin whimpers and opens his eyes.

"I've got you water and some pills, for your head or your back or both. Can you sit up?"

Justin rolls onto his back, throwing off the comforter. His shirt's rucked up, his stained sweatpants sitting low on his hips, and Lance can see a slice of pale belly lightly dusted with hair. Justin wriggles toward the headboard and nearly loses his sweatpants. He's not wearing underwear, and Lance averts his eyes before Justin flashes him. He chuckles, though, looking up when Justin mutters, "Whoops." Justin doesn't seem to be in a hurry to pull his pants up.

"A strip show as my payment?" Lance asks with a smile.

"Fuck off and give me my drugs," Justin replies without any heat, sounding sober and sleepy. Justin takes the pills, gulps down half a bottle of water in one long swallow that does not, absolutely, make Lance think of Justin's gag reflex, and slowly turns around to lie on his stomach.

"Kill me now," Justin mutters into the pillow.

Lance heaves a sigh, slips his feet out of his flip-flops, and gets on the bed, straddling Justin's thighs.

"Let me know when I get close to killing you," he says and starts rubbing, exactly how he did way back when they were much younger - though no less stupid - and Justin's back wouldn't stop hurting after long hours of rehearsals.

They fall asleep. Lance doesn't even know how it happens. He knows Justin falls asleep as soon as the drugs kick in. And then, one moment Lance is sliding off Justin's thighs to go downstairs and leave, and the next, rays of morning sunshine warm his face through the open windows and semi-open blinds, and he's lying on his side next to soundly sleeping Justin, still wearing his jeans, t-shirt, ring and watch, his phone digging into his hipbone.

Lance pulls the phone out of his pocket, and it's barely six. He puts the phone on the bedside table, removes his watch and ring and puts them next to the phone. He thinks of removing his jeans, then just removes the belt, unbuttons and unzips them for comfort, rolls over and goes back to sleep.

The next time Lance wakes up is because something's tickling his neck. Lance flips onto his back and realizes that Justin's poised over him on hands and knees, staring at him intently. Lance rubs at his eyes and peers at Justin, who seems to have at least changed out of his dirty clothes. Justin pulls Lance's t-shirt up and rubs his now-smooth face over Lance's stomach.

"You shaved," Lance says, hand automatically reaching for the back of Justin's head.

"And showered. And brushed my teeth." Justin raises his head up and for a moment, he and Lance are staring intently at each other, faces so close they're sharing air to breathe.

"Gonna make me feel better?" Justin asks, and he sounds as normal as Justin gets.

Lance laughs, and then Justin's lowering his mouth and they're kissing, and Justin still tastes like toothpaste and Lance doesn't want to open his mouth because he definitely doesn't. He tries to pull away but he can't really go far, as pressed into the pillow as he is, so he raises his arms and forcefully pushes Justin away.

"I didn't brush my teeth last night," he explains sheepishly.

"I don't care," Justin says and lowers his head to nibble on Lance's neck, teeth scraping along the cord of muscle. Lance wants to strip naked and let Justin go to town.

Instead, he wriggles away from Justin's mouth and says, "I do." Justin gives him this look that Lance can't even begin to interpret and Lance adds, "And now that you're fully sober, we need to talk about this crisis-slash-bender of yours."

Justin shuffles to the side to let Lance get up, drops face-first into the pillow and starts snoring loudly. He's still fake-snoring ten minutes later when Lance comes out of the bathroom having showered and brushed his teeth with a spare brush he found under the sink.

Lance finds his flip-flops under the bed and slides them on. Swatting Justin on the arm, he heads out of the room, throwing over his shoulder, "I'll be in the kitchen drinking coffee." He's not at all surprised when Justin catches up with him in the hallway, overtakes him on the stairs and is seated at the table by the time Lance makes it into the kitchen.

Since Lance is still standing, he gets two cups out and pours coffee. When he places one mug in front of Justin, Justin's drawing abstract designs on the tabletop, fingertip tracing lines visible only to him.

"They are pushing for the second album," Justin finally says, and he doesn't need to specify whom he means. "And I'm scared shitless. Not that I'm a has-been but that shit with the Superbowl really shook me up. There was a lot of bad karma, bad press. I don't want that in the spotlight again."

"J –" Lance starts.

"No, I know what you're probably going to say, that it's an unreasonable fear, whatever. Think of it as my 'phobia'," Justin makes Chris's finger-quotes as he says that, and he's smiling, so either he has a plan on how to beat it, or he has an idea on how to get around it. There are no more strain lines around his eyes or his mouth, and Lance thinks that Justin's going to be all right. And really, that's how Justin functions; he freaks out and wallows in misery and self-pity and then he gets it out of his system and kicks the ass of whatever's been bugging him. Lance and the guys just need to be there for the freaking out part to cushion the fall; Justin tends to be self-destructive in his manic wallowing.

"I wasn't going to bring up unreasonable fears. I was going to say that thing happened a while ago, and that your talent and your music are going to overshadow your transgressions."

Justin takes a sip of his coffee, making a face over its lack of sugar, and smiles, "That's very sweet. Thank you."

Lance stares into his cup, takes a deep breath, and says, "I kissed you." He doesn't look at Justin, just raises his hand since he knows Justin will try to interrupt. "We were in Germany, mom and Lynn had gone out, and we were sharing that bottle of Southern Comfort Joey had gotten us, and scaring each other with ghost stories. We got drunk because we had no tolerance and because we hadn't eaten. You fell asleep in my room, and I bent over and kissed you. It seemed like the thing to do, and it didn't mean any less just because I was drunk and you were asleep. So. You know. If you're angsting about our lack of firsts, we did have one."

When he looks up, Justin's smiling widely, and when he meets Lance's eyes, he starts laughing.

"What?" Lance says, hurt, because this is big confession time to him, and Justin mocking him is the last thing he needs.

"I know about that one. I'd just closed my eyes and the next thing I knew, you were breathing on my face and stuff. Dude, you didn't even give me time to _fall_ asleep!"

Justin leans forward, his hand on Lance's neck and pulls Lance toward him. "I think we need to create some more firsts," he whispers against Lance's lips before kissing him. And, well, Lance feels he is owed this, since he probably doesn't stand a chance with the gate guard anyway, and he's not stupid to give up the prospect of sex with a hot guy.

Justin's tongue sweeps over his lips, coaxing his mouth open and this time, Lance complies, teasing at the corners of Justin's mouth, inviting his tongue inside to play. Justin slides off his chair, kneeling in front of Lance's, and this is such a role reversal for them, for Justin to be tilting his head _up_ for a kiss, for Lance to be leaning _down_ into it.

They move upstairs and conscious thought evaporates, leaving behind imprints of sensations – Justin's lips down Lance's spine, Justin's hands in Lance's hair, Lance's fingers leaving bruises on Justin's hips, Lance's teeth biting into Justin's shoulder, and his heels digging into Justin's back; their gasps and harsh panting, sharply indrawn breaths. When they finally part, separating and trying to catch their breaths, they lie so close they feel the heat still coming off each other's bodies, sheets impossibly tangled around them.

Justin stretches, his back arching so high off the mattress that Lance's dick twitches. Lance scowls at it, already plotting blowing Justin and then fucking him until Justin arches again, just like that.

"Remind me why we stopped doing this?" Justin asks.

"Because you decided you missed _girls_ ," Lance says dryly and doesn't mention how he doesn't really think Cameron qualifies.

Justin grunts. "Right. Gotta fix that. I've missed this more."

Justin groans and rolls onto his side and then flops over onto his belly, half on the mattress and half-sprawled on Lance. He's wearing that earnest smile, the kind he exercised on Lynn back in Germany when he'd ask for candy and she wouldn't let him have any.

Lance doesn't begrudge Justin any candy; he leans up and softly kisses Justin, still tasting traces of himself and long-forgotten coffee. Justin makes a noise, a pleased half-gurgle, and falls enthusiastically into the kiss, as if trying to hide inside Lance's mouth. Lance smiles against Justin's lips, forces the kiss to gentle, undeepen; he's perfectly happy to just be lying there, kissing lightly, softly, tracing Justin's lips with the tip of his tongue, nipping on Justin's lower lip when Justin gets too impatient.

Which Justin does, as soon as he realizes that Lance's dick is taking a renewed interest in current events. Justin pounces, and Lance waits until Justin's sprawled like a starfish on top of him to flip them over and put his evil plans into action.

He's falling asleep, awash with the second afterglow, when he feels Justin's lips behind his ear, Justin's hot breath tickling at the skin. Justin says, "Um. Nick still kissed me first," and it's the most incongruous and inconsequential thing to say at the moment.

Lance mumbles, "Do you care?"

Justin scoots closer, draping himself over Lance's back, throwing an arm over his waist and a leg over Lance's thighs; Lance is effectively caught in a Justin-cage. "Not at the moment," Justin says and nips on Lance's earlobe.

Lance smiles and lets the dreams overtake him.


End file.
